


Security Code Tango Charlie Whiskey

by ThetaSigma



Series: Mad Doc Watson [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Hostage Situation, M/M, Really actually BAMF, john is BAMF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2019-03-29 22:44:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13936995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThetaSigma/pseuds/ThetaSigma
Summary: John's surprised he's had such a quiet day at the clinic -- not even a text from his husband. It's a little unnerving, really. As he's about to text Sherlock, Greg calls with news -- Sherlock is part of a hostage situation.Well. John has some tricks up his sleeve to sortthatout.





	Security Code Tango Charlie Whiskey

**Author's Note:**

> I want to thank [busybiscute](https://busybiscute.tumblr.com/) for being a sounding board! She provides encouragement and tells me when something's way too far out there. These fics probably would be possible without her, but they'd be far less coherent.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has provided kind words about this series! I'm so glad you guys are enjoying it! And thank you for your suggestions -- I've used several in this fic. Anything you want BAMF!John to do, let me know and I'll see if I can't make it happen

John’s fairly shocked he’s had a quiet day at the clinic. Not that the _patients_ were easy, but his husband hasn’t blown up his phone with texts.

It almost makes John worried. He knows Sherlock’s deep in a case for the same bank they helped during the Blind Banker (luckily, not working with that utter arse Wilkes this time), but even during a case, Sherlock texts him randomly ( _The nanny! She’s secretly the daughter too! – SH_ or _Don’t wait up, caught train to Edinburgh – SH_ or _There may have been a small kitchen fire. Mrs H complained for two hours. Honestly, nothing was even damaged. – SH_ or _Do you think sheep have dreams? – SH or I take it back, sometimes it is identical twins. – SH_ ). John rather likes these odd texts throughout the day, even when they’re about kitchen fires. They’re proof Sherlock is alive, and given what a trouble magnet he is, John likes that connexion. 

As he’s contemplating sending Sherlock a quick text, his phone rings. “Greg?”

“Yeah, uh, you should definitely come down to the Yard.”

“Is Sherlock with you?”

“John,” a sudden quiet as Lestrade talks to someone else, “He’s not. I don’t want to do this over the phone. I’ve sent a police car – I know you don’t have the same hang-ups as Sherlock.”

“Greg. Just tell me – is he okay?”

“He’s alive.”

Which doesn’t really answer John’s question, and makes him really, really nervous, so he makes his excuses to Sarah (one day she really _is_ going to fire him, he thinks, but not today, not with a PC standing in the doorway), and jumps in the car.

Not much later, he strides in Lestrade’s office. “What did Sherlock do now?”

“He went back to the bank to talk to one of the VPs about the counterfeiting ring. And, well, the counterfeiters showed up, and blew the lower level so the doors are blocked, and now it’s a hostage situation,” Lestrade explains. “Except, it’s one where we can’t even get in the building, because the lower level is basically rubble – they had _skill_ , blowing it in such a way that the bank is still structurally sound, really – and we’re a bit cautious about clearing our way in, given that it’s also a hostage situation. Sherlock is in there, several dozen employees, and we don’t know how many criminals. We’ve had one communication informing us of the situation, and nothing since. We’ve attempted to call various offices within the bank, but they’ve cut the phone lines to the building. We have no way of reaching them right now.”

John absorbs all this information calmly. Lestrade envies him that calm – he’s got a crisis mode, too, but he’s not seeing a clear way to save any of the hostages. It’s making him more than a little jittery, honestly, and it’s not even _his_ husband in danger. 

“Has Sherlock managed to communicate with you at all?”

“Just one text that he’s alive and unharmed, but then nothing.”

“And given that he can text blindfolded, with his hands behind his back – I’ve seen him do it – they likely took his phone.” John gives a decisive nod. “Right. I’m making a phone call, then.”

“Mycroft?” Lestrade guesses.

John gives a wolfish grin. “Oh, I have resources beyond Mycroft.” 

Lestrade gives him a funny look. Naturally, working with Sherlock constantly, Lestrade has met Mycroft several times and is well aware of what Mycroft is capable of. This wouldn’t be the first time Mycroft has had to get his people to fix a mess for them, even if one doesn’t count any cases he takes away because of ‘national security’.

“You’re not running in single-handed,” Lestrade says finally. “It’s not the same as that kidnapping situation, these people are not amateurs.”

“I actually wasn’t planning on it. But I think this is a bit beyond the Met’s reach,” John pulls out his phone and dials a number he didn’t think he’d ever call again. It’s a direct line to one of the superior officers of the nearest military base. “Brigadier Stewart? General Watson here. Security access tango-charlie-whiskey-niner-five-seven-two.”

Lestrade _stares_. He’d heard Sherlock call John General, yes, but he had been rather convinced it had been roleplay. There’d been a niggling doubt in his mind, but in the end, he had decided John was probably just what Sherlock had said, years before – a Captain, a former army doctor. That’s definitely not what this is.

“Brigadier, I need all available forces mobilised.” John gives the address, then says, “Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard will debrief you now on the situation there.”

He hands the phone over to Lestrade, who gapes for a second before taking it. “Er, Brigadier Stewart, sir? Yes, this is DI Lestrade. Right, we have a hostage situation and cannot access the building.” He gives a description of the explosion, a quick background of the suspected criminals (compiled by Sherlock, of course), and any other pertinent info he can think of. “Yes, sir, I’ll hand, uh, General Watson back.” It feels really strange to refer to John – mild-mannered, unassuming, pleasant John – as _General Watson_.

“Brigadier. Objective is to safely enter building and neutralise hostiles. Casualties of hostages unaccepted, casualties of hostiles to be avoided but acceptable.” Lestrade makes a protesting noise and John raises a hand to stop him. “Side-objective: Sherlock Holmes is to be rescued first and above all. 6 foot, 160 pounds, dark hair, and an attitude. Every respect to be afforded to him. I will meet the crew down there with the Met. Clear roads between NSY and the bank.”

He hangs up and turns to Lestrade. “Well, don’t just stand there gawping, assemble something resembling a force and let’s go. Preferably people who’ve been working this case – the army will need to know about it.”

He’s dressed in a button-down, khakis, sensible shoes, still in his lab coat, some medical thingy poking out of his pocket, and Lestrade has never met someone more threatening than John is right now. _Holy shit_ , he thinks. _John is completely unexpected._

“Right,” he says. “Uh, that’ll be Donovan, Anderson, Mills, and Jones.”

John absorbs this. “Donovan, Anderson, you and I in one car, Mills and Jones to follow. We don’t need more – Brigadier Stewart will have that covered.”

Lestrade thinks for a few seconds. “We probably should bring DI Stanley, too,” he says. “He’s the official liaison between the Met and outside agencies.”

John shakes his head. “Unnecessary. I will be directing operations once we arrive, and I hardly need the official liaison.”

Right, of course John will be directing – he’ll be the highest ranking officer present on the scene. _Christ_ , when did this day get so fucking _surreal?_

Lestrade sweeps out of the room, grabbing Donovan and Anderson and telling Mills and Jones to follow them to the scene.

John claims the front seat, and Donovan and Anderson wedge themselves into the back.

“Why’s _he_ coming along?” Donovan asks. “We don’t know how we’ll get into the building, we have no way of communicating with the hostage-takers, and whatever he may have been before, he’s a civilian now. He’ll get in the way.”

Lestrade gives a short, humourless laugh. “Trust me, he really, really won’t.” He doesn’t bother telling them who John is or what he’s done – they’re not going to believe him. Hell, if he hadn’t been there during John’s phone call, Lestrade’s not sure _he’d_ believe it.

“What’s he going to do, stare them into submission?” Anderson snipes. Lestrade privately thinks John _could_ stare pretty much anyone into submission. John could probably stop a bullet just by looking at it. “God, he’s just Holmes’ hanger-on, he’s not even _useful_.”

John ignores them. “You can go faster than this,” he says. “They’ll have rerouted traffic already.”

Lestrade pushes on the gas harder. Donovan and Anderson are keeping up their sniping.

“And family members aren’t supposed to be on scenes,” Donovan continues. “If it goes badly….”

“Right,” John says. “It definitely won’t go badly. I can guarantee that.”

“My point exactly, sir! They’re _delusional_ when it comes to their loved ones.”

“For all we know, Holmes has pissed them off so much they’ve shot him,” Anderson adds. “God knows I’ve been tempted.”

“Sherlock isn’t the only hostage,” Lestrade points out. “Would you really condemn the rest because you don’t feel like saving his life?”

They subside a bit at that, then Donovan says, “I still don’t think Watson should be with us. He’ll go off half-cocked, like that time Holmes got kidnapped, year or so ago, and if we’re lucky, all that’ll do is create endless paperwork for us. If we’re _lucky_.”

Anderson realises something. “I’m in _forensics_ , why do you want me on the scene?”

“Because,” John says tightly, in his _I am getting rapidly pissed off but restraining myself here_ tone, “in the absence of Sherlock, you’re one of the few who knows _anything_ about this case. Granted, not _much_ , but at this point, we’ll take what we can get. Do try not to piss in terror, though – that would contaminate the scene.”

They finally arrive to find soldiers buzzing all over the place, clearly waiting for _something_.

“How’d the military get involved in this?” Donovan asks. “Far as we can tell, this isn’t an international problem or terrorists.”

John looks back at her. “I called them in,” he says, and gets out of the car.

Donovan gapes after him. “Did he just say he called them in? He was a captain!”

“Yeah, he really wasn’t,” Lestrade says. “Everyone out.”

They exit the car in time to see a soldier – a captain, by the pips – salute John sharply. “General Watson, sir, we’ve been waiting for your arrival.”

John salutes back. “Right. Preliminary assessment of the scene, Captain?”

“Engineers are studying the blueprints and the debris right now. Estimate roughly one hour to remove rubble in such a way that building is safe to enter.”

Donovan and Anderson stare. Donovan whispers to Lestrade, “Did that man just call him _General_ Watson?”

Lestrade nods. “Yeah, uh, so, John was a general. Is a general? I’m not sure. And he _did_ call in the army – I was there when he made the phone call.” He stares Donovan and Anderson down. “Whatever your private issues with John, he is currently in charge of this scene. The army has this in hand, can solve this when we can’t, and John is directing the soldiers present. You _will_ obey any orders put to you by John. That is non-negotiable. Failure to do so is insubordination and will be treated as such.”

Donovan makes a rude noise. Anderson protests, “But he’s not even active military, and we’re not part of the military! We don’t have to take orders from him.”

“I don’t know his exact status, Anderson, but these soldiers are taking their orders from him. And we are now annexed on a military operation, so yes, you _do_ have to take orders from him. Do I make myself painfully clear?”

They mumble something that’s vaguely an assent.

Mills and Jones arrive, and Lestrade debriefs them quickly (this is now a military operation, John Watson is in charge, any orders put to you by him are to be followed). They make no protests, but then they don’t have much of an opinion of John one way or the other. And they dislike Donovan and Anderson enough that anything that pisses them off is a good thing.

“General Watson!” a soldier calls. “Hostage team wants to talk to you.”

John heads over, beckoning to Lestrade to follow. “Right, Lieutenant,” he says to the leader of the hostage team. “DI Lestrade informs me we have no way of reaching the hostage-takers. Plans?”

The lieutenant answers, “We need the way in cleared first, of course.”

John looks around. “Send small teams of men into the buildings there, there, and there,” he says, pointing. “Upper levels. Binoculars. Have them scope out what they can of the bank from there, report back.”

“Sir!”

*** 

Sherlock really wishes they hadn’t taken his phone. He’d managed to get a text off to Lestrade – _unharmed trapped_ – but hadn’t been able to text John. Normally, John would’ve been his first choice to text, but Sherlock had foolishly assumed that there was no reason to tell John about this quick interview he was doing – it wasn’t supposed to be _dangerous_ – and it would’ve taken a bit more to explain to John just why he needs help now.

He can only hope Lestrade contacted John – likely, Lestrade doesn’t know John has contacts, but he’ll feel duty-bound to inform Sherlock’s husband what’s going on. 

Several hours into this situation, he’s also wishing they’d knocked him the fuck out. They’d locked him in a closet with fucking _Sebastian Wilkes_ , and it started off as intolerable. By now, he’s pretty sure he’s in the deepest circle of hell.

“You know, Holmes, you’ve always been a fucking trouble magnet,” Wilkes says. “And fuck, who’d want to rescue _you_? Christ, I’m gonna die here because no one wants anything to do with _you_.”

“You’re currently the one whining nonstop,” Sherlock points out. “If I were the criminals, I’d shoot you just for some peace and quiet.”

Wilkes snorts. “Always knew you were a goddamn psychopath. You’re probably in on this, aren’t you? Weird little fuck, you engineered this.”

“And had them lock me up? How stupid do you think I am?”

“It’d throw suspicion off you.”

They hear gunshots in the distance.

“Oh, fucking great,” Wilkes sighs. “They’ve finally decided we’re too much trouble to keep alive. Goddamn, my last few hours on this planet were spent with _Sherlock Holmes_. I don’t need to go to hell, I’m already there!”

“Certain you’re going to hell, then?” Sherlock asks. He hears regimented footsteps – a march. Not the criminals, then. The army?

“I certainly hope not,” Wilkes responds. “I don’t want to spend eternity in the same place as you.”

The footsteps are getting closer. “In here!” Sherlock calls.

“You _idiot!_ ” Wilkes hisses. “Why’d you tell them where we are?”

“If it’s the criminals, they put us in here.”

“Yes, but maybe they forgot about us and now they’re going to shoot us because you can’t keep your fucking mouth shut. You never could keep your fucking mouth shut.”

“Oh, for God’s sake. Listen to the footsteps. That’s not the criminals.” He calls out again. “Closet halfway down the corridor!”

The footsteps come nearer and stop outside the door. It swings open, and they blink against the bright light for several seconds.

Soldiers. Sherlock looks up at them. “Right, well, you lot certainly took your time,” he says. “Do they not teach basic pathfinding anymore? It’s a building, how lost could you guys _get?_ ”

One of the soldiers’ lips twitch. “Reckon you’d be about six foot standing, you’re certainly a skinny bastard, dark hair, and yep, attitude. Sherlock Holmes?”

Wilkes crows in triumph. “I knew they were after you, Holmes!”

Sherlock stands. “Yes?”

The soldiers salute. “Sir! Orders are you’re our top priority, sir. General’s outside now; we’ll let him know where you are.”

Wilkes is rubbing his hands together in glee. Okay, yes, there was a salute, but a _general_ wants Sherlock. Oh, this is too good – a perfect ending to a shitstorm of a day. He can’t wait to see what Holmes has done to warrant a general looking for him.

One of the soldiers radios down. “General, sir, Holmes found.” He gives their location, then listens to the response. “Good work,” they hear through the radio. “Does he require medical assistance? Over.”

“Negative. Over.”

“Tilson, you stay with Holmes, the rest of you continue search and rescue. Subdue the criminals as needed. Watson out.”

A few minutes pass, and they all hear someone coming towards them. “Sherlock?” a voice calls. John rounds the corner several seconds later. None of them notice Tilson saluting.

“Oh, it’s your _colleague_ ,” Wilkes spits. “Amazed he hasn’t run screaming yet.”

John raises an eyebrow. “Husband, actually. And god, you are just as much of an arse as ever, Wilkes.” He turns to Sherlock. “Are you okay? Did they hurt you?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “No, I’m fine. I mean, except for the fact that I’ve been stuck in a closet with _him_ for hours now. John, my mind is collapsing in on itself.”

“Yeah, yeah, get your potshots in now, Holmes,” Wilkes says. “You’ll be singing a different tune when that general shows up to talk to you. God, I knew you had something to do with this. Fucking freak. Wonder when he’ll get here.”

John gives him a thoroughly unpleasant smile. “He’s already here,” John says. “General John Watson. You were saying, Wilkes?”

Wilkes pales rapidly. “Ah. Uh. Fuck. Ah, no disrespect intended, sir.”

John turns to Tilson. “If you feel like shooting him, I certainly won’t object. We’ll call it an accident.”

There’s a growing wet spot on Wilkes’ very expensive trousers. John laughs. “Forget it,” he says to Tilson. “I want you to walk him out of here looking like that. Have a good one, Wilkes.”

Sherlock wraps his arms around John and pulls him into a hug. “John, what did you _do?_ ”

“Lestrade called me to tell me what had happened. Obviously they couldn’t deal with it, and I’m not calling fucking _Mycroft_. Called the nearest army base and issued orders.”

“My general,” Sherlock sighs happily, resting his cheek on John’s head. It amazes him he’s allowed to do this – John absolutely can be fluffy and warm, but he’s also steel and insanity, and he’s currently directing a military operation, and Sherlock _gets to rest his cheek on John’s perfect head_. It’s a heady feeling. 

“Wait until I tell you about the look on Donovan and Anderson’s faces when they found out,” John says. “I have to finish directing this operation now, though.” He pulls away reluctantly, gives Sherlock a quick kiss, and heads back down to the pavement, Sherlock following.

*** 

Another hour or so passes before the building’s cleared, those needing treatment have been taken away, the criminals arrested and being transported, and the operation is slowly winding down.

John issues a few last commands – wouldn’t do to desert his post now that he’s got Sherlock back – and turns to Donovan and Anderson. “Right,” he says. “I’ve kept this very quiet for a long time now, but now you know who I am. I can mobilise the army with one phone call. I can take out a house full of kidnappers single-handed. I can break every bone in your body while naming them. I am General John fucking Watson, and if you _ever_ mistreat my husband again, if you even _look_ at him funny, I will bring my wrath down on you. Is that clear?”

They nod in terror, and John smiles at them. “Well, then, I could murder a cuppa. Sherlock?”

“God yes.”

*** 

Although John had made his speech only to Donovan and Anderson, the events of that day spread very quickly throughout the NSY. _Including_ John’s threat, which Mills had been all-too-happy to tell everyone about. 

The force gave Sherlock a far wider berth than they ever had before, careful whenever John was around to be practically deferential. Donovan and Anderson never so much as _looked_ in his direction, and no one ever dared call him ‘Freak’ again. Even conversations about him where done with a quick look around to make sure John Watson was nowhere near.

And if they gave Sherlock a wide berth, well, they walked on fucking eggshells around John. He slipped back into his mild-mannered doctor persona, but everyone was suddenly extremely aware that he was not the friendly GP at the nearby surgery, but a trained soldier. 

John smiled blandly at them and watched Sherlock work. 

(Lestrade had originally given John a wide berth, too, more than a little unnerved, until John cornered him and told him not be ridiculous – they were friends. Now, Lestrade’s the only who gets away with friendly ribbing, elevating him to near-God status amongst his coworkers. He’s the man who can tell Sherlock to stop being dramatic and get nothing but a laugh out of John.)

**Author's Note:**

> Bonus points to anyone who can tell me:   
> a) Where the Brigadier's name was borrowed from; and   
> b) Why John's security code starts Tango Charlie Whiskey.


End file.
